


for you, for you, for you

by phwaa



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phwaa/pseuds/phwaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wakes foggy and flustered and can’t quite remember why she’s here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you, for you, for you

 

 

 

FOR YOU, FOR YOU, FOR YOU

(The Weepies; Sirens)

 

 

 

 

She wakes foggy and flustered and can’t quite remember why she’s here.

Her window is open and she’s cold, and only when she sits slowly in her bed does she start to recognize her surroundings. Ugly curtains against white-washed walls, bed sheets that cling too tightly to her waist and a dripping shower barely visible beyond the bathroom door.

Beside her, the vitamin bottles she thinks the Machine forced her to get are lined up, and she thinks about taking a day off.

Root feels like she’s been here forever, checked in at one of the dullest hotels New York has to offer. Surrounded by fields on all sides, she misses the city more than she’d thought possible. She’s not sure why she’s here yet, but she’s sure it will all become clear in the next few days.

The threat isn't over yet. If the others are too ignorant to understand, then Root will have to do it alone.

 

\--

 

Punctual as ever, the Machine whispers a mission.

The job, she’s told, will finally end the game they've been reluctantly playing.

 

\--

 

It had happened in May.

She dreams, dreams, dreams of the sun against her skin, the grass beneath her feet and a bird sitting atop a flashing camera. It hadn't been nice at all. She remembers it wrong so very often and sees guns and grenades and gasoline trailing behind.

Samaritan had fallen, the Machine had fractured and Sameen Shaw had found her way back.

It had happened in May, and this she knows for sure.

 

\--

 

Her ear is silent in the wake of her watch. The Machine hasn't spoken to her for days, she thinks, for weeks. It’s not unusual, She’s recovering from the worst war She’s fought, and Root is trying not to take it personally.

Without the Machine, the details are still distant, though the mission is clear. Samaritan still operates in the cracks, and this woman is the key.

The communal lounge is as tasteless as the rest of the hotel, and Root feels as though she’s drowning in the pale colors and dim lights. Her number, a woman that has been a guest here for far too long, spends her days reading the newspaper and smiling at the staff.

Grudgingly, this means Root has to do the same. This is why she’s here, after all, to help the Machine in any way she can. She was brought into this world for that exact reason, to serve this God that no one will ever truly understand.

Her number gets up to make herself a cup of tea by the breakfast bar and Root watches patiently as milk is poured and sugar is sprinkled, and then she looks back down to the half-finished crossword in front.

 

\--

 

Whenever Harold visits, he always looks on the edge of breaking. He looks around the lounge as if a threat is imminent.

Before he can ask why she’s still here, Root smiles and leans over the coffee table to capture his wondering eyes. “This job is never ending, Harold.” She says, leaning back with his attention. “It best be as important as She says.”

He blinks back, and she regrets telling him instantly. “You've got a number?” Harold asks, and Root isn't sure if he’s hurt or just surprised.

“An important one.” She nods.

Looking around again, Harold pushes at his glasses and looks back bewildered. “And who is your number, Ms Groves?”

The Machine has obviously been ignoring the whole family. “Now that would be telling.”

A few seconds pass, and Harold just sits and sips at his tea before gently placing it down and looking back at her. “Perhaps you should take a break from any missions.” He says, flitting his gaze down and up until it lands unsteady by her shoulder. “This last year has been tough on all of us, working is surely the last thing you want to be doing.”

“This is a big one.” She smiles, and wonders just how broken Harold is nowadays. He looks weak and worn out and Root reminds herself to tell John to watch out for him. “It’ll end this once and for all.” She says, because she thinks it will make him feel better.

It doesn't work, though, because Harold just shakes his head and asks, “end what, Ms Groves?”

Everyone thinks the threat is gone. Sameen is safe and Samaritan has collapsed and that’s the danger over. Except it’s not. Samaritan is bigger than any of them could have imagined, Samaritan has links across the country, across the world and Root knows the danger hasn't quite diminished.

She can’t say that, though. The take-down nearly killed them all, and explaining that the threat is still breathing would destroy what’s left of her misfit family, so she can’t say that.

“When this job is done,” she says, “and I've got the information I need and I've done what I need to do, I’ll explain everything.” She’s watching as Harold struggles to swallow before turning to nod at a member of staff talking to one of the guests. “Don’t be mad, Harry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Have you told your face that?”

He turns back and sits a little higher. His eyes stay blank, his mouth stays straight and when he speaks it’s with a hint of sadness. “I’m confused, really, not mad.” The clock at the wall stopped working the week before, but he still checks it and pretends to startle at the time.

She’s a little disappointed, but she has to watch her number and he still marks papers. “Off so soon?” She asks, because watching him stutter past an excuse might hurt more than the alternative.

“I’ll come back to check on your progress.” He says, graceless and guilty. “And please try not to cause any trouble.”

Watching him hobble away, May had been cruel to his limp and hardened his heart, and Harold hardly ever smiles with his eyes in tow. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

 

\--

 

Three days later, her ear buzzes with recognition and a name is whispered through the cracks.

This is what she knows about her number: Donna Gable. 34. Originally from Ohio, but traveled around the country before settling in New York. Finished college with recently signed divorce papers and a degree she barely managed to pass in Performing Arts.

Samaritan had picked her to be the carrier of a last ditched effort to save a broken AI because she didn't understand a thing she was told. She was dispensable and, under duress, could give nothing but her own vague and distorted understanding of the information she’d been asked to deliver.

Donna Gable is the key to finally shutting down Samaritan, Root is sure. She just doesn't know how yet.

 

\--

 

In her head, May had gone down in her book as a success.

Yes, there were deaths. Yes, her Machine was infiltrated and yes, John and Harold obtained injuries. But they got Shaw back.

Broken and battered and bruised beyond belief, Shaw had clung to Root’s waist as the building burned behind them. She’d smelt of ash and singed skin and groaned whenever Root had pulled her closer. A small body buried at her side, Root hadn't breathed until they’d reached safety.

Root hadn't breathed for weeks.

 

\--

 

She’s searching her cupboards and wondering why she didn't think to bring any weapons to the hotel when he catches her off guard. Reese steps back when she swivels around and she wonders if she locked her door, wonders if it matters anyway.

“What are you doing, Root?” He asks, looking past her to the open draws.

He’s probably going to be as judgmental as Harold if she mentions her new number, so she shrugs. “Cleaning.” She says.

She could have come up with better. He looks skeptical as he glances over and back at Root’s growing smile. “You’re not doing a great job at it.”

Reese looks only slightly less tired than Harold, his cheeks aren't sunken in and it’s probably because of the job he’s managed to keep with Lionel and the constant crime he’s still managing to fight. It’s almost normal for him, she thinks, saving people even without the onslaught of numbers.

“Housework has never been my forte, I’m sure you can imagine.”

He nods, but it’s not like he believed her anyway. “Finch tells me you've got a new number.” He says, stepping back and canvasing the room. He’s been here plenty of times, scanned the white walls and clean pressed sheets and yet he always acts like it’s a new room with every call. Stopping at her vitamin tablets and looking around, he asks, “are you taking these?”

“Your concern for my health is very sweet, John.” She says, rolling her eyes and sauntering over at his continued raised eyebrow. “Have you and Harold been gossiping about me?”

“It’s not gossip if it’s true.”

That’s not entirely true, but she doesn't say so. His fingers are still gliding over the bottle caps, and she decides to meet him in the middle. “If I tell you about my number,” she says, “then you have to promise to help me with something.”

Reese automatically looks skeptical, his hands drop back to sway at his side before clasping behind his back. Perching up on the bed, Root smiles as she watches him internally deliberate. After a while, he nods and murmurs, “go on.”

She almost gets excited. “Well,” she says, sitting straighter and getting comfy, “my little number is the unknowing holder of Samaritan’s last effort of life.”

As expected, Reese blinks slow and looks unimpressed. “Root-”

“Ah, not done yet, Mr Giant.” She waits for him to close his mouth to continue. “I know what you’re about to say, we already destroyed Samaritan last May. But I think that’s why she’s been waiting here for so long, because her handler can’t come for her anymore so she isn't sure what her next move is.”

Reese stares for a moment and sulks in silence. “Samaritan is gone, Root.”

“I’m not sure what form the data is in, whether it’s on a hard drive or written code. But when I get it, I might need your help to crack it.”

“No.”

Root tsks and waves a finger in the air. “Now, now, John. A promise is a promise.”

He doesn't stay long, tells her not to be stupid and gets a call from his chubby partner.

 

\--

 

May, May, May.

She dreams of May constantly, and wakes wondering why she wants to be sick.

 

\--

 

She rouses to someone rattling her vitamin bottles and looking down.

“You don’t actually take these things, do you?” Shaw grunts, looking at them with disgust. “You don’t need them, they’re just a way to get money out of people.”

Sometimes, having her back makes Root ache right to the core. “Is this the doctor talking, Sameen?” She asks, sitting up and not bothering to pull at her shirt. Shaw’s face stays stoic, so Root just shrugs and says, “I haven’t had time to take them recently.”

“Good.” The bottles are down, and Shaw is walking over to the window seat. “They’re stupid.”

She looks beautiful, sitting by the window with a breeze traveling through her hair. Her eyes are wistful, her mouth turned down and Root constantly wonders how to fix this broken woman. How to keep her forever.

“Your mood matches the weather.” Root sings, pulling out of her comforter to cross her legs and stare over. “Beautiful and sunny.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, looks back briefly and then across out to the fields. “You need to find a better hotel, this one is getting boring.”

“How could I do that now, when I’m so close to finishing my mission?” It’s not entirely a lie, she’s getting closer. Root had followed Donna Gable back to her room the day before, knocked and asked to borrow a tampon and searched in draws whilst she waited for it.

Shaw doesn't sound impressed when she speaks. “I heard you had a number.” She says. No one else has heard from the Machine in a long time, Root imagines it’s a bitter subject all around. “She planning on spitting more out anytime soon?”

“I couldn't say.” Root whispers, standing and walking a bit closer. “Don’t be jealous, Sameen, I’m happy to share.”

 Shaw squints up in response, looks up and shakes her head. “I’m a hit-man now.” She says, only slightly bitter. “Hit-woman, whatever. I've got my hands full anyway.”

“I’m sure you have.” Root raises an eyebrow, ignores the grunt Shaw offers as she moves across to make room for Root on the window seat.

Sometimes, always, Root stares across and wants nothing more than to reach out and hold on tight. But it’s never been what they do, and Shaw would drown at the touch. So Root so very often settles for staring.

“Have you planted cameras?” She asks, looking anywhere but across.

“No need.” The woman is boring, she sleeps, eats, reads and repeats. Watching her all day is enough, watching her sleep would just be torture. “The Machine would tell me if something happened.”

Shaw scoffs. “She’s been quiet lately.”

Root flinches and recovers instantly. She considers them both her favorite things in this world, clinging to both is hard when they’re both trying to be distant. “She’s mending herself.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs, like they both didn't shatter last May. “I need to get to work anyway.”

“So hardworking.” Root sings, leaning forward and fluttering her eyelids. It gets the scowl she’s aiming for and, when she sits back, she wonders what it would be like if Shaw wasn't deficient in feeling. “Perhaps I’ll hire you one day.”

Standing, Shaw raises a brow and looks pitying. “You couldn't afford me.” Her walk is slow, and Root looks away before she leaves and only turns back when Shaw calls her name. “Don’t tell them I've been here.” She says, pursing her lips and looking deliciously naughty. “I promised Finch I wouldn't get involved with your stupid plan.”

“You’re not involved.” Root says and gets a shrug back.

“Still,” she grunts, waiting for Root to look back to the fields before leaving.

The room is colder almost instantly.

 

\--

 

Donna Gable doesn't get more exciting.

“Is someone sitting here?” She asks, when watching has become unbearable.

Below her, Donna flinches, looks up and smiles. Root has to repeat herself before she gets an actual response. “Oh, sure.” Donna says, pats the cushion next to her and strokes at the material until Root has to pick her hand up and move it away. “Make yourself comfortable.”

After the amount of attention just paid to her seat, Root isn't sure that’s possible. “Lovely weather.” Root sighs, pointing to the open doors leading out from the lounge to the fields. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh, sure.” The woman says again, nodding and leaning to pick up the glass of milk she’s been nursing all morning. “My favorite weather, I think.”

Adopting her sunniest smile, Root swivels around and shines. “What a coincidence.”

As it turns out, the woman is as interesting as she is helpful. To Root’s dismay, she doesn't offer up anything. There wasn't even a reaction to her- “wow, what a Good Samaritan you were,” to a story that really just detailed her feeding some ducks.

She’s a little bit odd, to say the least, and when Root makes an excuse to leave, she manages to get invited to have a look at her book collection instead. To which she reluctantly accepts and agrees to find her the next day.

 

\--

 

“I can’t read her.” She says to Shaw, later that night when they’re lying next to each other and not quite touching. Root could reach out, pull at Shaw’s sleeve and ask for so much more and perhaps she’d get it. Perhaps a repeat of the kiss that had singed her lips beside a broken elevator would turn her mouth to ash.

Shaw grunts and folds her arms over her shirt, glancing over quickly. “It’s probably an act.” She huffs, her breath never reaching Root’s cheek. “She did acting in college, right? She’s probably putting on a performance for you.”

Root’s considered it, but something wasn't quite right, something didn't fit. “I don’t think she’s that clever.” When she turns to look across at Shaw, she’s immediately warmer. She’s never gotten used to it, this reaction she gets when she’s close to Shaw. It’s only ever happened to one other person, and she’d lost her too soon. “Not like you.” She whispers, and it’s a cheap shot, but it rolled out before she could stop it.

Shaw returns her stare, and Root can’t stop her hand from reaching over. It never reaches destination, and Shaw cringes away from it and whispers, “don’t,” like this mere touch will kill her. She’s dreamed, so often, of smoothing across that skin and trailing a tongue across the expanse of her neck.

Briefly, Root recoils away. “You were the one that kissed me, Shaw.” She says, because she thinks about it constantly. It happened far too long ago to use as leverage or actually make a point, but it’s buried somewhere in Root’s chest and sometimes the feeling of the loss that had followed eats her whole.

Shaw looks like she’s been caught off guard, blinking fast and shuffling further away. “Don’t use that against me.”

Shaking her head, Root wouldn't dream of it. Having this woman distant isn't half as painful as having her gone. It’s a whisper when she replies, “I’m not.” It’s quiet, but Shaw is still there so she shrugs and says, “I’m looking at her book collection tomorrow.”

It takes a moment for Shaw to catch on, but then she snorts. “I’m killing a banker tomorrow.”

It’s forgotten, this thing between them, so often brushed under and away. Sometimes, Root looks across and traces her own lips and wonders.

 

\--

 

Remember, remember, remember.

She dreams of May and sees Harold fall beneath a crushed leg, watches Reese stumble with a bullet piercing his side, hears Lionel splutter against blood from behind her and can’t find Shaw at all.

Heart racing, searching, breaking, Root’s ear is static and then silent.

It was early May when it had happened, Root knows this for sure.

 

\--

 

In the morning, she says, “I’d go mad without you.”

Shaw is stirring awake, resting above the comforter. Her eyes roll back so far they nearly disappear.

“You’re already mad, Root.”

Sometimes, she’s sure it’s true.

 

\--

 

Donna Gable is a big fan of short sentences and big pictures. Her book collection may as well be taken straight out of a kindergarten bookshelf, and Root hums up and has to force herself not to ask.

“I can read.” Donna says, defensive and distant. “I’m not stupid.”

Shaking her head, Root’s smile is sweeter than honey. “I didn't think you were, Donna.”

Briefly, she looks confused. “Donna?” And then, it’s gone. “I just like looking at the pictures.” She shrugs and puts one of her books back. “I don’t know, maybe it is stupid.”

“Not at all.” Root says, running a finger across the spines. This room is the exact same as Root’s, with a little more personal effects and pictures hanging around. It’s odd, that she’s decided to make herself so at home in a hotel. Lined against a desk, Root notices vitamin bottles similar to hers and wonders if that’s the link. Next to that, though, is a tattered book that looks like a journal.

She can’t get it now, not without causing suspicion and Root isn't armed and hasn't got a complete understanding of this woman yet, so she keeps it in mind and decides to come back for it.

Root only realizes she’s being watched when Donna coughs and steps into her eye line, shuffling just a little too close. “Do you read?” She asks, and Root nods and tries to recall when she last sat with a book.

 

\--

 

Shaw is a constant visitor, nowadays, may as well check in as a guest at the hotel.

“It’s kind of clever.” She says, pacing at the bottom of the bed and running a finger against the bed-frame. “No one would suspect her, not even herself.” Stopping in the middle, she turns and looks at Root sitting by the headboard. “It’s also kind of stupid.”

“I’m going to steal her journal.” Root says, raising an eyebrow.

Shaw scoffs and watches Root for a minute. “How impressive.”

“She might've written something down.” She says, moving to crouch and crawl closer to the end of the bed. “If I can destroy Samaritan’s last hope, then we’re free of it forever.”

When she’s reached the end, Shaw doesn't move away, remains in front and just clings to the metal separating them. “And you’re sure this Donna woman is the key?” She asks.

Root nods. “I know it.” She says. “The Machine told me.”

Leaning so close they’re a whisper apart, Shaw smiles as she glances down to Root’s lips and back up. “Then go for it.”

 

\--

 

May comes back in flashes and, before she can understand, she’s waking in a cold sweat.

May comes back in flashes and Root’s feet shake as she clenches porcelain and tastes bile in her throat.

 

\--

 

Shaw says, “one day,” and leaves the sentence hanging for minutes before she finishes it.

The sheets are cold but Root imagines they’re warm beneath Shaw’s body. “What?”

She hesitates again and swallows audibly before she replies in a whisper. “One day I’ll let you kiss me back.”

Root can’t help the smile, twisting her head to the side and smiling at Shaw’s refusal to meet her stare. “Yeah?”

Hours later, when Root’s almost drifted off and her lids are heavy and warm, Shaw says, “yeah.”

 

\--

 

Overall, the Machine is a little bit useless.

She has to wait until Donna is really tucking into her oatmeal, watches her swallow her spoon three times, before she runs up to commit a petty crime. The hotel security is lacking and the cameras move in semi-circles every five minutes. With a hairpin she’d found on her bathroom floor, she picks the locks and steps into the room in just under a minute.

The journal is where it was before, splayed across her desk next to bottles and pens and a half-full glass of water. Flicking through, there are pictures, scribbles and words viciously crossed out. On the outset, it looks like some pretty brutal therapy sessions happen inside these pages, but nothing much beyond that.

There has to be something.

 

\--

 

She offers it up to Shaw, who shuffles away and refuses to take it. “If Finch finds out I've encouraged you, he’ll go mad.”

With her best pout, she places the journal on the sheets between them. “I need the internet to look up some of these phrases and I can’t find my cell. They might be important.” She doesn't look convinced. “Reese promised to help anyway, you just need to give it to him.”

“You give it to him.” She says, looking down at the pages open.

“What are you afraid he’ll do, Sameen?” She asks, but she can already tell Shaw won’t give in. Root watches her mouth set and her firm shake and gives up. She settles for just listening to her voice instead. “Well then you can at least tell me about your most recent kill.”

And, reluctantly, she does.

 

\--

 

A week later, Reese looks horrified.

“You stole her journal?” He asks, taking it from her hand and flicking through the pages. “Why would you steal her journal?”

This is silly. “You know why.” Root says, shrugging back and almost bursting. “Why don’t you believe me? The Machine gave me this number, and you and I both know how big Samaritan is.”

They’re in the hallway and the hotel is silent all around. Perhaps she should be wary of listening ears. “The Machine is gone, Root.”

“Don’t be petty, John, I’m sure she’ll give you a number soon.”

Reese looks exasperated, looking around and back down at the book in his hand. Lost for words, she jumps in again.

“Look, all I need you to do is look into a few phrases I've underlined. It could give us a lead and-”

“No.” Reese swallows, shaking his head but keeping the book in his hands.

Root had expected more. Whether or not he believed her, there was no harm in trying. “A promise is a promise.” She says, watching his shoulders deflate. “You don’t have to believe me, Shaw didn't at first. But you could at least try.”

His eyes shoot up, trace her face and settle into a frown. “What?”

“I mean, if you find nothing then you haven’t lost anything.” She says, moving forward to flick a finger at the journal. “Go on, John. Be a friendly giant.”

His face hasn't changed though, his eyes are harsh and mouth set and his knuckles clench around the cover. “Okay, Root.” He says, it sounds pained, but she counts this as a victory. “I’ll look into it.”

 

\--

 

If Donna knows who took her journal, she doesn't say.

“Did you see it?” She asks, walking up to Root when she’s peeping over at the TV the hotel provide in the communal lounge. “It’s brown and looks quite old. I think it was on my desk.”

Her sympathy is slightly real, Donna’s eyes are watery and Root doesn't actually believe this woman knows what she’s keeping hidden away in her room. “I’m sorry.” She says, shaking her head and offering a comforting hand on the shoulder. “I really hope you find it, though.”

She feels evil, afterward, as she watches Donna stumble away and ask the man in front.

 

\--

 

It’s dark out and she’s just drifting off when Shaw storms in. Her lock is either faulty or Root’s key-card has been on a trip, because Root doesn't think she’s ever opened the door for this woman.

Shaw doesn't waste time, climbs on the bed and straddles Root’s hips above the comforter. Almost touching, Shaw leans down with hands either side of her head. “You told him.” She says, eyes burning and breathing heavy. “I asked you not to tell them.”

Root tries not to concentrate on how close she is, how her lips could graze Shaw’s chin if she pushed up. “I don’t see the problem, Sameen.” She says, glancing between both eyes and trying not to look down to the mouth squeezed tightly shut. “I don’t think John is really that bothered whether you come here or not.”

Her words are neither comforting nor the trigger, because Shaw just swallows and stares down. “But I asked you, Root. I asked you and…”

“What’s this really about?” She asks, shuffling against the sheets slightly and trying to read everything she can from this beautiful face. Her lamp is off and the only light seeping through is from the moon outside. She looks like the prettiest disaster Root has ever seen. “Tell me.”

“It’s not-” Shaw shakes her head. It’s a mystery to both of them, it seems.

They stay like that for a while, so close and yet never quite touching. Root wants this and so much more, dreams of this woman and wonders where she is, if she’s killing someone important or eating a steak in the diner where they both used to find themselves. It’s a disease, she thinks, needing Shaw this much.

After a while, Shaw sits up and stays straddling her hips until Root drags herself back to level her gaze. It’s silent, barely a whisper, when Shaw blinks and struggles to say, “I don’t want to leave you.”

Root doesn't understand, reaches across and thinks better of it. “Then stay.”

“I can’t.” Shaw says, her swallow is thick, her voice broken and Root frowns and shakes her head.

“I don’t understand.” Her chest hurts, her heart aches and Shaw is never quite here. Never quite gone, either. “Of course you can stay if you want, no one’s going to drag you out.” Heart beating, repeating, beating, repeating. Something’s not right, there’s always something not right and she can’t pin it down. “I want you to stay.”

Nodding, Shaw climbs off the bed and Root crawls after. It’s getting colder and Root wishes Shaw had just let her sleep.

“One day,” Shaw says, shrugging back and staring straight across into her eyes. “One day, I’ll stay forever.”

It’s not enough, it’s never enough and Root doesn't understand. Crawling forward, she blinks below at her comforter before looking back at the darkness Shaw left in her wake.

 

\--

 

It had happened in May, and this she knew.

She’d fallen against the rubble and empty sheets and empty chains and dipped her finger in the puddle of blood.

She couldn't hear a thing, looked around and saw the world crumbling but only felt the liquid setting against her skin.

She’ll wake soon, think about the nightmare and wait for Shaw to smile.

Reese picks her up, says something and clicks fingers by her ear. They’re leaving.

It had happened in May. Early May, when the sun was still high and the grass was at its greenest. This she knows for sure.

 

\--

 

Her coffee is cold and she pushes it away as she watches Donna come closer.

“He found it.” She says, clapping a little and swaying on the spot.

Root’s responding smile isn't nearly as chirpy. “What?”

“Your friend,” she says, like it’s obvious, “your friend found my journal and gave it back to me.”

Clenching her fists, Root wants to punch someone. Root wants to punch Reese.

 

\--

 

Shaw doesn't come back that night, and Root wonders if she’ll ever just stay forever, like she’d said.

Her sleep is fitful and she dreams of nothing.

She dreams of nothing and wakes to an ambush.

 

\--

 

The coffee Harold offers is too weak for her liking, and she thinks again about how she needs to tell security about her faulty door, because it’s causing her trouble she really doesn't need.

“Take a seat, Ms Groves.” He says, sitting by the coffee table and couches opposite. She doesn't comment on how this is her room, her seat and her place to be offering them the opportunity to sit in the first place. “We just want to talk.”

Reese is slouched at the end of one of the seats and she wonders if Shaw’s invitation was lost in the post.

Root is too angry to refuse; they've not only ignored her mission, but compromised it as well. Now she’ll need to steal the journal back and search for it herself, and it’ll probably be hidden somewhere stupid now.

“This is awfully formal, Harry.” She says, walking over and perching opposite. “I suppose you’re here to tell me to stop the job.”

His nod is lost in his fidgeting and he glances at Reese before speaking. “Root,” he says, and swallows hard. “Tell me what happened last May.”

It’s not what she expected to be asked, she frowns and blinks between the two of them before answering. “I don’t know what-”

“Just tell us what happened.” Reese says, leaning forward and nodding encouragingly.

She’s dreamed, dreamed, dreamed of this. “We destroyed Samaritan.” She says, struggling to swallow. “And we saved Shaw.”

The response is heart-breaking, and Reese sits back and nods. “Okay.” He whispers. “Okay.” Again, again, again. “She hasn't been taking them again.”

Root doesn't understand. “I mean, more actually happened.” She says, looking back, trying to find the words they want. “But they were the most important things. We crashed Samaritan and got Sameen back.”

Harold says, “what happened to the Machine?” His blinks are slow.

She asks, “why are you asking me this?” Her heart is too fast.

“Last May,” Reese says, shuffling forward. “We did destroy Samaritan.” Not just that, she knows. There’s more. He’s going to say more. His voice is too rough, she leans forward to catch it all. “But the Machine was destroyed in the process.”

“No, because,” Root almost wants to laugh. “She told me about this number. Shaw would've told me-”

“You've seen Ms Shaw, then?” Harold asks, looking back to her bedside table and the bottles she knows are there.

Root shakes her head, tries to bring his eyes back to her before spluttering an answer. “You know I have. She told me not to tell you because you didn't want her to-”

“We didn't find her.”

Root can’t feel herself drop but she’s somewhere in the darkness. She can’t breathe, and when she brings her fingers to wrap around her throat, they’re shaky and unsteady. “No, because she-”

“We found traces of her DNA,” Harold says, fiddling with the cane that rests beside him. “There was a puddle of her-”

“No, don’t.” Root stands, paces and can’t keep her feet steady. Her legs want to drop and the bottles sit there, beside her bed and watching.

“Ms Groves,” Harold gestures across from him, pleads with his smile. “Please sit down.”

“This is a hotel,” she says, running a finger over her sheets and tripping back towards the table, “it’s a horrible hotel, but- Why don’t I ever leave here? Is there a reason?”

They don’t answer, but she knows. A hotel doesn't usually paint every wall white, house permanent residents that aren't quite normal and encourage everyone into the communal living area. They have the same vitamins, her and Donna. She’d stopped taking them weeks ago.

 “Did you put me here?” She asks, staring at Harold and watching Reese stand. “Did you two lock me here?”

Harold stutters and fumbles with his glasses. “We didn't know how to help.”

“It’s a nice place, Root. They let you take your own meds and-” Reese shakes his head, pointing around. “You could do worse.”

A thought comes and goes. She’s been here before, but she can’t place it. She’s seen that look, watched them stutter an explanation before, but she doesn't really remember at all. “How often does this happen?” Her chest is aching, her head is beating with a pulse she’s sure isn't her own.

Reese looks to the floor, reaches to straighten his shirt collar and meets her gaze when he has an answer. “Sometimes, you can go for weeks and be fine-”

She’s falling, she thinks. And she’ll wake up soon. Shaw will tell her it’s a bad dream and she’ll forget the details come morning. May was hard on all of them. May brought Harold’s shattered leg, a bullet to John’s side and Lionel’s missing left thumb. But May brought Shaw. May brought the one person who’d made her complete.

“I don’t understand.” It’s a whisper and a lie.

 

\--

 

Later, much later, when the doctors had explained her medication again and they’d all stayed to watch her take them, she thinks she’ll die.

“You’re not real.” She says, turning to the woman lying beside her. “I can’t touch you.”

Shaw doesn't say anything, watches Root’s hand dance out and never land. Root couldn't bear to touch what she’d find. Nothing, she thinks. There would be air and cold space and nothing. Almost petulantly, Shaw says, “I asked you not to tell.”

She aches in the pit of her stomach. The two things she cares most about in this world are gone, missing or destroyed. She thinks she’s dying. “You kissed me.” She says, because she thinks about it constantly. “And then you let me go.”

Silence and silence and silence. Shaw nods.

Her throat is splitting apart when she speaks. “I can’t let you go.” She says.

“They didn't find my body.” Shaw whispers, shrugging against the sheets. “Perhaps you don’t need to.”

“One day,” Root says, looking across and nodding at Shaw.

“One day,” She repeats, turning to watch her drift to sleep. “One day, I’ll stay forever.”

 

\--

 

May, May, May.

She dreams, dreams, dreams.

It happens constantly.

 

\--

 

She wakes foggy and flustered and can’t quite remember why she’s here.

Her window is open and she’s cold, and only when she sits slowly in her bed does she start to recognize her surroundings. Ugly curtains against white-washed walls, bed sheets that cling too tightly to her waist and a dripping shower barely visible beyond the bathroom door.

Beside her, the vitamin bottles she thinks the Machine forced her to get are lined up, and she thinks about taking a day off.

 

\--

 

 

 


End file.
